Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ed can only assume Oswald is doing this to send him to a hot, frothing, early grave. And he could say it’s all in his head, but no man can invent such unholy pauses of two chests touching, pressed hard together, their hearts stretching their beats like hands toward each other.

He’s losing his mind now.

Because Oswald has snatched his spectacles right off his face and they’re behind his back now, and yes, Oswald’s chin is pointed up towards him, no, now it’s resting right above his sternum. And there’s a look, such a tempting look, and he pokes his tongue out like a tease.

“Come and get it,” he whispers. And what a challenge because he must know that to get it, Ed will have to reach at least one arm around him, and that could be dangerous in an empty room like this one, no watching eyes to inflict lines and rules. Everything steamed up and foggy.

Oswald lifts his hands up and it takes Ed’s slow-chugging brain a long moment to realize he must have slipped the glasses into his back pocket. Dangerous.

He could do it if he wanted. Envelop Oswald in his arms, dip his fingers into the boundaries he dare not cross. Let Oswald’s filth coat his fingers like molten chocolate. He’d be stained for weeks.

But Ed isn’t like that, no matter what he feels. He can’t compromise in the dark and then pretend to walk in the light the next day.

“Give them back, Oswald.”

And, please, oh gracious lord who art in front of me, let this be the end of it.

It’s not.

It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.

It’s that molten chocolate touch on his wrist when Oswald asks for his attention. It’s the imprint of Oswald’s body when he stands a foot behind him. It’s the air he carries because now Ed carries it too, and he tries to hold his breath, but he can’t forever, and now he’s breathing it in, Oswald-laced oxygen, and it’s an airborne drug.

Ed makes a habit of chewing through the skin on his thumb and stashing himself away in his room like a dirty magazine he’d like to hide.

I’d like to hide, please.

He’s sent up the wall, breathless on sleepless nights, scratching at his skin to keep himself from rubbing it, to hold back the salacious touches he could imagine were someone else. But that wouldn’t be proper at all. So he bites and scratches and wishes that wasn’t tantalizing too.

He reads in the rags that people are speculating about them now. And that isn’t proper at all, no.

Ed buttons his collar all the way to the top in hopes that it will keep less of that taste off his skin so he won’t be so tempted to scrape his tongue against every place Oswald looked when he’s upstairs tonight.

It doesn’t work.

Oswald asks him to help him into his jacket and it’s like murder for his soul and Ed feels ravished by his outfit, his gaze, his fingers on his shoulder, and it’s intimacy and Ed could come from it.

But he won’t.

He won’t.

Sometimes they talk and Ed can almost relax because, really, it’s just talking, but then Oswald laughs at nothing in particular and the line of his throat could send Ed to jail.

Ed has dreams of that throat between his teeth and he chews right through it and it’s more erotic than any night with some stranger on his cock because it’s Oswald’s blood and it’ll be in his system for weeks, a part of him.

He shivers when Oswald walks by the next day, and Oswald notices, pauses and grins, leans in and whispers “Quite a chill in the air, isn’t there?” And Ed could beg to differ because it’s so wretchedly hot and Oswald’s spilling molten chocolate over him again and he’s not sure how much longer he can escape this.

Oswald wraps his tongue around things like it’s a new endeavour, a country undiscovered and he’s hell-bent on being the first man to lay claim to it. Mine, he spells out on his bowl of ice cream and that devilish tongue should be licking the sweat off the small of Ed’s back where it’s currently gathering, if only to atone for his dreadful sins.

Ed dips his Oswald-smothered fingers inside himself one night and from then he knows it’s over. Because as Oswald bends over to gather his cane, he’s also bent over his bed, grinning over his shoulder do your worst. And Ed doesn’t do a thing, just stands there, but it’s the look of the thing, the utter temptation, the knowledge he can’t and won’t touch. It’s that which brings him to the edge.

He gets hooked not on the longing but on the denial, the way he keeps himself from touching, caressing, taking. His self-control makes his knees quiver and it provokes Oswald too because he’s somehow bolder, pressing his finger against Ed’s lips instead of his own to shush him, hanging over his shoulder when Ed reads the newspaper, kissing his ear when he whispers state secrets.

They begin to fuck with looks and temptations and the silence between the long spaces. Ed keens for it, bends over and takes every one of Oswald’s salacious glances, drinks it in and holds it inside himself every time they stand just on the edge of too close together.

More.

The press print the question “What goes on behind closed doors?” And the answer is THEM, the them of their push and pull and Ed’s eventual escape to his bedroom and the knowledge that he won’t be able to hold back forever but the fact he managed it today makes him scream.

Spill, stain, satiate, my bed’s covered in the evidence of my obsession with you.

Oswald’s bound to hear him from his room. It’s gorgeous and bright, a beautiful eclipse.

One night Oswald knocks on his door while he’s moaning, and Ed has no doubt in his mind that he knows and he’s doing this on purpose. Ed grins, throws on a robe and opens the door.

“Just wondering if you could use any help in there,” he smiles, shrugs, wearing casual like a dress he bought just for Ed to tear off with his teeth. “I heard a loud noise.”

“I wonder what that was.” Ed’s dick is still hard but he makes no move to touch it, no move to snatch Oswald’s hand and place it there, no move to drag Oswald inside his room, tussle with him on the bed and beg him to do something already.

He could come just from this. He probably will, two minutes later.

The next day, Oswald invites Ed in to dress him and he’s wearing black lace underwear that doesn’t fully contain his bulge. Ed’s wonders what the weight of him would feel like on his tongue through that thing.

Oswald knows. Asks him if he’s staring at something in particular. Ed just smiles. “I thought I spotted a mole on your thigh. Very interesting.” There is a mole on his thigh, a dark spot against the canvas of his skin and tonight he’ll be dreaming of kissing it with his head sandwiched between them.

It’s when Oswald grins at him and touches his nose with a “tag you’re it” that Ed’s feet begin to shuffle across those foggy lines. He reaches for him and Oswald sidesteps, smiling like a mystery. “Missed me now you gotta kiss me.”

And maybe it’s because he wants to see if he can kiss Oswald and still hold back from pulling him to the floor and swallowing his dick, or maybe it’s because kissing Oswald would be like swallowing a ball of lava and he’d always wanted to try that before, but either way, he kisses him.

Just a hot, steamed, foggy press, sliding sideways over the line, not letting himself stroke his cheek like wants to, or even dare press with his tongue. And he pulls away with Oswald’s boiled-over chocolate dribbling down his lower lip, gathering at his chin, only to splash down his neck and below his shirt collar where he’ll save it for later.

Ed wants to run upstairs and have his way with himself, but he doesn’t. Wants to dip his forefinger into Oswald’s mouth and ask him to suck, but he doesn’t. Wants to tear up rule books, give the press what they want, wreak havoc to lines, to Gotham, to them.

But he doesn’t. And it’s exhilarating.

Oswald looks at him. “Guess I’m ‘it’ now.”

Ed tilts his head. “Guess that means you have to catch me.” He walks away. Oswald doesn’t follow. But he watches.

Ed can feel it.

(And later he replays it, that short heated contact, over and over and over, fuck, Oswald, over and over, please, fuck, yes, please, over and over, more, and over.)

Then it’s two days later and Oswald just spilled water over Ed’s lap and it’s water, it won’t even stain, not like Oswald’s touch does. He could just go upstairs and change. But he sits there, legs spread as Oswald pats the front of his trousers dry and looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes that ask him for more.

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

“It’s very helpful, thank you.” His voice breaks but he doesn’t hold Oswald’s hand down or push up into it so it’s a win that he’ll celebrate later, (More, fuck, more).

Except he won’t, because that same day, Oswald calls from his room and summons him with a beckoning finger.

“I think I’m getting sick,” he proclaims. His tie is undone. There’s a jar of vaporub on his nightstand. Right beside it sits a pack of condoms, a bottle of lube and a dildo. As if implying all of the items are in some way related to each other.

Oh, this is what I’ll be thinking about tonight.

“Could you be just a darling of a friend and help me out with this. I’m very weak.” And then he’s undoing his buttons and Ed wants to do it for him, but he’s so good, so he simply watches, just memorizes it even as his stomach twists and blood pools in his cock.

Oswald lies down and points to the vaporub again. Ed moves slow, like there's all the time in the world, like his heart isn’t beating off like a teenager in his bedroom, like Ed will be tonight, like he has yesterday, the day before, weeks now, maybe forever.

Maybe he’s going mad.

He takes the vaporub, uncaps it and savours the sound of it. Dips his fingers in and it’s soft and makes him tingle. He deliberately turns and strokes a long line down Oswald’s sternum.

He tuts. “That’s a terrible angle, Ed. I want you to reach everywhere.” He shakes his head, causing his hair to spike out on the pillow, like he’s been tossing and turning and keening and wailing. “Sit here instead.” He taps the space between his legs.

Ed doesn’t smirk, but he wants to. He climbs onto the bed and settles into the tight space between the Mayor’s legs. He manages not to lean down and open the front of his trousers with his tongue. “Is this better, sir?” And a jolt runs through him because he hadn’t meant to call him that but he supposes one must release the tension in one's cock somewhere.

“Perfectly adequate, Ed.” Oswald settles further into the cushions. “Begin.”

Ed rubs it into his chest and it’s sticky like his come would be and he’d lick it off right after rubbing it in, but he’d push it into his skin first, just to mark him for a short while.

“Now, now, Ed,” Oswald opens one eye to appraise him. When did he close them? “I did say everywhere.”

And Ed doesn’t know what he means until Oswald wraps his hands around Ed’s wrists and directs his fingertips to his nipples, and this is not on any instruction manual, not one online forum, but Ed circles Oswald’s areolas with his coated fingers and watches transfixed as he sighs.

“That’s good, Ed,” And the molten chocolate in his voice refuses to allow innocence to grow between them. Ed swallows.

“I’m glad, sir.” Again, with the sir. He might trip and lose himself if he isn’t careful. And isn’t that prospect exhilarating?

Lose myself in you, over you, your head between my thighs, mine between yours, of my cock, milking that space, gasping for air as I keep my fingers on your nipples and make you scream.)

Ed brushes over the tips of Oswald’s nipples just barely and he gasps and closes his eyes again. Ed swallows that too. Strokes down Oswald’s front to rid his fingers of any excess gel. Dismounts. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes.” He’s gasping. “That will be all.”

And Ed thought it would be. He really did. But he didn’t know that Oswald would waltz downstairs just an hour later and find him in the dining room.

He didn’t know Oswald would be wearing a robe and nothing else.

He didn’t know Oswald would undo the belt and drop it.

He didn’t know it would be the last straw.

“Oswald?” And it’s a strangled grasp like Oswald’s thighs are crushing his throat.

“Oh dear.” He crosses his arms. “How unfortunate.”

And Ed should care about saving this for later, should care about keeping himself teetering on the edge of this foggy line so that when he falls off tonight it’ll be that much stronger.

But his head’s so full of saved up things and moments where he could’ve, or should’ve, but didn’t.

Oswald’s thigh pressed to his in the car, a hand gripping his shoulder as they posed for the paparazzi, their hands brushing as they passed phones and files, guns and knives.

His tongue stretching into the dip of his spoon. His eyes peeking through his lashes as he whispers. The spill of blood over his palm. The stretch of his lips as he sucks it off.

It fills his brain.

“Should I put it back on? Ed.” And the intonation on his name makes everything just… stop.

Ed doesn’t want a best friend, nor a flight of fancy, nor another heated night alone. He wants a lover.

Now.

He crowds Oswald’s space like he’s craved for weeks and finally gives in. Pushes a hand into Oswald’s hair, still dancing that foggy line, then tips his head forward and kisses him with tongue, turning the line into a far-distant memory.

Oswald must know that the game is over now because he’s undoing Ed’s tie, moaning into the kiss, pressing his naked body into Ed’s clothed one. And it’s illegal and absolutely criminal which is probably why they both like it so much.

“Knew I could make you break!” Oswald gasps in the shared breath between two lava lamp kisses, basking in the glow of it.

“You weren’t exactly subtle about it,” he gasps back and his shirt is a waterfall down his back until the fabric ends and he’s just shirtless.

Oswald tilts his head. Tugs Ed into his space, down to his level. “So,” he whispers. Ed’s stomach tenses. He tugs in his gut. “What’re you going to do about it?”

Ed wants all of it, the hands, the mouth, his cock, wanted to taste, to test, to fuck, to absolutely fry his brains out in a cataclysmic event of pleasure.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pick, Oswald,” he warns lowly, aware that his arousal is colouring his voice, “If we did everything I wanted, you may very well die. Then we wouldn’t be able to do it again.”

Oswald smirks, licks his lips, tongue slipping across the shell of Ed’s ear as if by accident. It isn’t. “That’s quite true, Ed.” He brushes his lips down Ed’s throat. “So, let me.”

Oswald touches first the delicate bones of his inner wrist. Splays his fingers over them possessively. Then proceeds to bring the wrist to his mouth and bite. He looks up. Those shadowy eyes peeking through the vale of lashes. “This is mine.”

Ed swallows.

“So is this.” He traces Ed’s adam’s apple with his fingernail then bites that too. “This too.” His hand suddenly snatches Ed’s thigh, fingernails like claws through the fabric. “Take it off.”

(Stumbling out of his trousers in the dead of night, desperate for it, every jolt of pleasure in his brain begging him to just touch, stroke, tease, please god touch. He refuses. And through that, he finds release.)

Ed keens and releases the clasp on his belt, shucks the trousers like they burned, as if Oswal’d’s gaze didn’t burn hotter. Oswald’s pupils widen. “You’re so good at keeping yourself in check, Eddie.” And all at once, he realizes:

Oswald likes it too.

The thought just makes Ed harder, pictures of Oswald sneaking into his satin sheets only to picture Ed’s denial as well. Perhaps he touched himself imagining him in the corner, imagining the way Ed would hold himself back from joining him, imagining the way he would stand resolutely still and ask, “Anything else, sir?”

“I wonder, Ed,” and he’s so very still under Oswald’s ministrations, his mind swept up in it all, “How long do you think you could last while I suck you?”

Ed swallowed. “Long enough to make sure you come first.”

“Twice?”

Ed gasped in the space between them, then swallowed it back down. “Well, now that’s a mystery only a practical trial can solve.”

“I’m happy to indulge you.” Oswald strokes his hand firmly down his front, cups Ed and presses the heel of his palm into his arousal. “Now be a dear and undress for me.”

Ed rips his tie away and removes his jacket. His fingers fumble on the last buttons of his dress shirt so he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside.

“Pretty,” Oswald murmurs, fluttering a clawed hand over the blush on Ed’s stomach. Ed only nods, fixing his glasses on his nose again. “Do keep going.”

“Yes.” He unbuttons his trousers like a show and removes them, shaking his legs to loosen the fabric where it gets caught around his feet. Exhaling fast, then slow, then fast, he pulls his underwear off too.

They’re on an even playing field now.

“C’mere.” Oswald cups his chin and pulls him forward, magnetic, sucking a kiss onto his lips. Ed whines and pushes his tongue into the proceedings, craving every spark of Oswald’s attention.

Fingernails catch at his shoulders and pull. He stumbles, following Oswald’s lips to the sofa in the corner, crawling on top of him when Oswald lays down.

More kissing, glorious kissing, until Oswald pulls away with a soft hum to say, “Turn around now.”

He stares at those spit slick lips while heat burdens his cheeks knowing what might come next.

Oswald strokes his cheek slowly. “Come now, don’t be shy. Vulnerability is the gateway to pleasure.” He tilts his head, a model in a dirty magazine. “If you choose to take it.” It’s an invitation and a question, asking is this too far and we can stop now while it’s still easy to do so.

Ed licks his lips. “I choose to take it.” And he’s off the couch and removing his glasses, before resituating himself facing the other way. For a moment, his hot face presses into the cushion between Oswald’s legs, and it grounds him in the fantastical realness of it all. To think that this is a beginning and not an end.

Oswald, however, isn’t too preoccupied with such things.

“Holy shit, Oswald I–” His hips buck and he moans, hopeless to it all, before catching himself. There’s still a challenge at play, of course, a chance to prove himself. And prove himself he shall.

Breathing slowly, he closes his eyes and imagines himself back in his room. Just another fantasy. One more denial. The last denial.

And this would be the most delicious of them all.

Oswald’s mouth on his dick is just a sensation and Ed can hardly be controlled by such things. Oh, and how Oswald will love that he can’t be controlled.

Ed grins. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Oswald.” And his lips slowly sink over the tip of his cock. The world stops for a moment, magnificent and wonderful like the empty space after Oswald speaks his name. Perfect.

He hums, dipping lower, moving his tongue slowly. A treat, but he mustn’t finish it all at once, now that would spoil his dinner. No, he must take it one bite at a time.

But Oswald drops his cock from his mouth like revenge and utters, “You know I could leave you now, Ed. Leave you suffering in silence, begging for my touch. And you wouldn’t do a thing about it, would you? You’d rather have me and your game than let yourself come with no one to watch.”

A blink and a gasp, searching for something to say until– “Perhaps if I can stop myself from coming with your hand on my dick, I can make myself come just by looking at it. How would you like that?”

And he can feel Oswald’s grin as the flat of his teeth pressed against his tip. “Touche.”

Ed smiles, laps at Oswald’s cock again, feels it like a new kind of sunlight. He’s getting what he wants for once. No space between them anymore. Revenge and satisfaction are equally as sweet.

Oswald gasps beneath him like he’s pulled some magic trick by swallowing his dick down his throat, and maybe he has because Ed can feel power beneath his hands as closes his eyes and wills himself not to come just from this.

It works, of course. He’s in control, after all.

Oswald pulls away again, whispers again, a secret. “You knew I wanted you, you knew it. You just wanted to make it harder for me, so much harder.”

And Ed smiles again, mouths, “Worth it,” and swallows him down.

“I knew you wanted me too, Ed, I saw it, I heard it in your voice. You didn’t play me for a second.”

Ed turns his face into Oswald’s thigh, bites at the flesh. “Didn’t I? You’re here aren’t you?”

Oswald huffs. “You really think you’re in control?”

“No, no,” Ed laughs, bites again. “I don’t think I could control the way I feel about you for a second. I’d sooner move mountains, dry up rivers, than stop wanting you.”

Oswald doesn’t seem to know that Ed’s cleaned out all the spare drawers and cupboards in his mind in anticipation of his moving in. Decluttered his world just to add some extra space.

Oswald reaches down, grabs his hips. “You make the finish line look less important than the race. It’s disgraceful, being so perfect Ed.”

He shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Mayor. You’ll be at the finish line soon either way.”

Oswald moans and Ed knows he’s not wrong.

The taste of him, it’s starting to feed into his veins, starting to make him think like a drunk man walks, stumbling and never in a straight line. A cascade of tripping, his mind performs before them.

He sucks at Oswald’s skin and imagines they are on a desert island, feeding off each other, ripping organs out just to survive. Monstrous.

Oswald licks at Ed’s cock and he takes it all like it’s nothing. They both dig their fingers in, trying not to let go.

Oh, but Oswald’s never been good at self-control.

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh Ed, Ed–”

“Hold on a little longer,” he whispers against his tip, just another tease. “Surely you can hold on a little longer?”

“No! I can’t,” he insists, hisses, a spiteful dragon staking his claim over himself. “Fucking end me, Ed, now.”

“As you wish.” Sucks like he dreamed of two nights ago, holds his hips, his ass, touches him like an addict giving in to the cravings, digs into the dessert of it all. Delicious.

“Fuck, Ed.” Oswald spills down his throat. Ed can’t remember ever wanting anything else. He could come just from this. But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t.

fin